There's no Love on Wall Street Read online

  Liz gave me a big bright wiry grin, ‘You’re the best!’ and she hurtled towards me to give me a hug. I held my breath as she came closer; the strange coconutty smell emanating from her frizzy hair was rather nauseating. The first step in the makeover process would most definitely be investing in a big bottle of shampoo.

  At times I suspected that the only reason Paramjeet Kaur Saluja or ‘Pam’, as she liked to be called, had joined IBD-GenX was to get all the economics homework assignments from Liz and me. Well, mostly from Liz. Pam was born to be an investment banker. Ever since she had been a little girl, she had wanted to be a Goldstein girl and would step on many well-scrubbed banker toes to get there. Pam was born in upscale Greenwich, Connecticut, and had grown up surrounded by kids whose parents were bankers. Her parents, immigrants from Punjab, had come to the US with $20 in their pockets and had worked their way up the ladder and now had an empire of Dunkin’ Donuts and 7-Elevens around the state. Growing up, Pam had always been the odd one out in the preppy private schools and had desperately wanted to fit in. Over the years she had figured out that being an investment banker would give her the elevated social status and a ticket into the society that she had seen from the fences and had yearned to be a part of all her life. I admired Pam’s motivation and intensity related to all things investment banking. Her latest fad was the diet pill. She felt that she was too fat to be a banker and wanted to shed some weight before interview season.

  ‘You know they hate fat people, especially fat girls,’ she said and ran a hand over her stomach, soft from the paranthas and butter chicken that her mom express mailed every week. ‘They think that if you can’t take care of yourself then you can’t possibly take care of millions of dollars.’

  ‘Pam, you’re fine … really! You’re in great shape,’ I told her, trying to dissipate some of her paranoia.

  ‘Oh! Riya, you liar! It looks like you’ve lost some weight, Liz said you’ve been going to the gym every day.’ Pam looked at me expectantly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  ‘Uh, well, a bit.’

  The truth was that I was indeed trying to get more toned. After careful analysis I had realized that the toned, lean, athletic look was what investment banks liked best. I was thin, and I figured some toning could only help my case.

  ‘You know, I’ve never seen a fat Goldstein girl. Based on the statistics of girls hired over the past few years the average height is five-five and the average weight hundred and fifteen pounds. I’m way over that,’ Pam admitted nervously. ‘But, they don’t like anorexic girls either,’ she said giving me a look, before pulling out a box of multicoloured pills from her bag and swallowing a couple. ‘This,’ she said, taking a sip of and choking on a vile-smelling viscous fluorescent liquid, ‘is an aloevera based, vitamin-infused meal supplement designed to detox your body. Lots of my banker friends drink it, especially the ones at Goldstein and all of them have lost a ton of weight.’

  Occasionally Pam would binge on her favourite foods—French fries, pizza and ice cream—but quickly and efficiently purged that from her body. She was just that sincere about being a Goldstein girl.

  3.2

  It was a cold winter night at Wellesley when I plodded through the snow on my way to the library for the weekly meeting of the IBD-GenX. Time had really snuck up on me. I could not believe that the deadline for résumé submission for summer internships was next week. The process was the same across all the bulge bracket firms—out of all the résumés submitted, sixteen girls would be shortlisted for the first-round interview. The second rounds were usually held at headquarters in New York City and six out of the sixteen would be invited to the firm. Finally, one lucky girl would clinch the coveted internship.

  Thinking about the uber-competitive interview process made my stomach sink to my toes. Switching my major from biology to economics had been a BIG mistake. All the intense banker-types had really screwed up the curve in the econ classes and more often than not, I had ended up on the flat, bottom part of the curve. I had tried to resurrect my GPA by taking French and music, but that hadn’t really worked as effectively as I had hoped since those classes were full of intense, super-sincere French-and music-types whom I could not compete with. Trekking uphill, lost in thought, I slipped on an icy patch and fell into the snow face-first. I lay there amidst the white snow and the brown track marks, the wetness seeping quickly into my clothes (oh no, this was my new pair of Seven Jeans), the chill sprinting up my spine, but I had no desire to get up. My current GPA flashed in front of my eyes in big bold red letters; 3.2, 3.2, 3.2 was all I could see. It would be impossible to get first-round interviews with the type of grades that I had. I kicked myself for giving in to the other I-banking girls’ demands and going to a frat party the night before the microeconomics final. I slapped myself for being hungover for my macroecon final presentation. I punched myself for using dysfunctional online translation tools to do my French homework. No amount of self-flagellation could appease my sins though; 3.2 was my number.

  I saw my whole life flash in front of my eyes: my nerdy days growing up in Indore, my transformation from geeky Indian pre-med duckling into beautiful investment-banking swan. My entire life would be a colossal waste if I could not get myself on those interview lists for summer internships. I was pretty sure that if I just made it to the initial interview, I would be able to get an internship. After all, interviews were all about smooth talking, weren’t they?

  The screeching of my cellphone broke my train of thought and I scrambled in my jacket pocket to find it. Liz. I hit the reject button and painfully picked myself out of the snow. I resumed my trek to the library, my wet bottom slowly turning icy. This was the last stretch of battle, I had to be strong and fight it.

  ‘Riya what the hell happened to you?’ exclaimed Pam. Liz looked up and gave me a big smile, bits of the caramel popcorn she was chewing on stuck in her braces.

  ‘I slipped … it’s really gross outside.’

  ‘Girl, you better be careful. With interviews and stuff coming up you don’t want to fall sick or, God forbid, break something, do you?’ said Pam, a phony look of concern crossing her perfectly made-up face. But I was certain nothing would make her happier than to have something happen to me during the interview process, it would mean one less person vying for the job. She was the type of person who would go around drugging people to reduce her competition.

  Liz was bent over a sheet of paper, concentrating really hard. ‘Riya, we’re making a list of the people who we think will make it to the interview shortlist of sixteen,’ she said with a terribly excited look on her face. ‘Obviously, all three of us have the necessary GPA to make The List … we’re just scoping out the competition.’

  I pretended to take something out of my bag. I had lied about my GPA to both Pam and Liz, telling them that I had a 3.562. If they found out I had a 3.2, I would be kicked out of the club. And that would be totally embarrassing since I was one of the founding members.

  ‘Hey Liz, what’s this?’ Pam asked pulling out a book from Liz’s backpack. Out came a battered copy of The Vault Guide to Investment Banking, the bible for interview prep. ‘Have you already started preparing? How could you? How dare you? I thought we were all supposed to start together! Oh God … you’ve been through the entire thing!’ she screeched, flipping through the ragged, extensively highlighted book. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead, her hands shook nervously. She took a deep breath, grabbed a lurid orange bottle from her bag, popped it open, and gulped down the contents. That seemed to calm her somewhat. ‘Ladies, I must go home and start preparing, interviews are less than a month away, and I’m obviously behind the game!’ The viciousness of a moment ago was now replaced with a look of pleading, ‘Liz, email me the assignment, will you? You’re the best! Riya, let’s go shopping this week and figure out our interview outfits. Toodles girls!’

  As Pam ran out, Liz turned to me, a bewildered look in her eyes. ‘This is crazy! I am going to start locking
my backpack, too many snoops around this place.’ She lovingly picked up the copy of the guide off the table, gave the book a big sticky kiss, and held it to her heart. ‘This baby is going to get me through.’

  The IBD-GenX meeting had just made it all worse. I had to find a way to make it to The List. There was no point wasting my time on the guide or preparing for the interview if I couldn’t even make it to the damn thing. I had to figure something out, I just had to.

  Presenting the One and Only

  ‘Hello, my name is Pam Saluja, and I am a junior. First, I would like to thank you all for taking the time to be here. I cannot even begin to tell you what a pleasure it is for all of us to have you here. What do you think is the single most important attribute that has led to your immense personal and financial success at the firm?’ Pam had asked another sickening question and everyone groaned under their breath.

  With interview season approaching rapidly, teams of recruiters from prominent companies, among them several investment-banking firms, visited Wellesley to give corporate presentations. We would dress up in our newly acquired corporate gear—a business suit, crisp shirt and high heels—and head out in packs towards the Wellesley College Club, where the most exclusive and important events of the institution were held. We were welcomed at the door by the warm, smiling recruiters and then proceeded indoors where we were met by the immaculately clad bankers who simply oozed charisma. This was my first interaction with real-life bankers and I was floored. How wonderfully perfect and happy they were, and they all seemed to love what they were doing. It was simply amazing how they radiated with good health and how well turned out they all were. We would schmooze with the representatives of the firm, trying to appear sophisticated as we balanced glasses of decadent wine and plates of gourmet cheese and delicately crafted hors d’oeuvres. It was often a fight to get to the representatives, who were accosted by packs of girls who would gleefully gather around them, asking inane questions and hanging on to their every word as they patiently and intelligently answered each question. The interactive session was followed by the presentation on life at an investment bank, usually given by one of the managing directors who were part of the group. We would listen carefully, feverishly taking notes while the MD showed us the most beautiful PowerPoint presentations that I had ever seen, telling us why they were the best investment bank on Wall Street and how they had the most unique working culture. To me each bank looked better than the next. As I sat there, perfectly still even though my buttocks ached on the hard chair, I dreamt about the life I wanted so desperately and vicariously lived this life through each perfect PowerPoint slide. More money than one could imagine, working on high-profile glamorous deals, jetting around the world in private planes and limousines, and the whole making-a-difference-in-the-world bit. All investment banks took corporate social responsibility very seriously and did their part in feeding the poor, fighting for world peace, etc. Investment banking was so much more exciting than being a silly doctor, forever dressed in unflattering scrubs and an ugly white coat. I would never have to ask my parents for money again … I could probably even help them out a little pretty soon.

  I had started out as an eager beaver, sitting in the front row with the likes of Pam, asking sugar-coated questions, but the more I thought about my GPA, the faster I began losing steam. How could I possibly make it to the interview lists with that number? It was unheard of for someone with a 3.2 to make it, foolish for them even to try. God forbid, if anyone found out about this, they would all laugh at me. Perhaps I was a weaker species than the Goldstein girls, and girls like Pam ruled the roost. Maybe it was a wise idea for me to mentally prepare myself to lead a life of medicine and mediocrity. As the darkness of my pre-med days seemed to return, I quickly made my way to the back of the room and I realized that my tummy was as soft as the brie that I was consuming for dinner and I was waking up with strange headaches every morning on account of the plastic cups of high-quality wine that I consumed. For some strange reason, I pushed on. I think it was just denial, but I kept going to all the corporate presentations, and told myself that having my name on the list as having attended the event would at least give me a few brownie points. Losing self-confidence, I stopped accosting the bank representatives to introduce myself and tried to exercise self-control by only eating strawberries.

  One incident particularly stands out in my mind. It was a chilly winter evening, and there was something sinister in the air. The clock struck 5.45 p.m. and the investment banking army emerged from the throes and marched in a single file towards the College Club to make it for the 6 p.m. UBS presentation. From space they looked like one big black snake, clad in a dark woolen coat with an underbelly of various shades of pastel. There was pin-drop silence as the army marched onwards with one mission in mind, to get as many business cards as possible. They were not going to let anyone or anything get in their way. I trailed behind the snake, walking fast, almost jogging to keep up, puffing and panting.

  I sat like a mouse at the back of the room, nibbling on my cheese, while the snake was firmly seated in the front. Up on the podium was Willow Fitzgerald, a managing director in the consumer retail group at UBS. We all gaped at her, our eyes wide with fascination. This was exactly who we wanted to be. She was dressed in a dark Chanel suit, with a Hermes silk scarf wrapped around her delicate neck. She was carrying a black Hermes Birkin bag and wore a pair of patent leather shoes. Her platinum blonde hair was perfectly straight, not a single strand was out of place and her porcelain skin was resplendent, not a trace of a line or a wrinkle. She was the epitome of success.

  ‘Welcome everyone, and thanks for being here today. I am not going to give you a lecture, I hate that stuff, and I want this to be a good time for all of us.’

  Oh! Her voice was so lovely, so calm and soothing yet so vibrant.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ she continued, ‘let’s have some fun, none of that awful dry stuff about rankings and stuff. We don’t have to tell you how good we are, because we are the best.’

  Oh! She was just so … cool!

  ‘I am going to start out by telling you a little bit about myself and how I made it in the big bad world of Wall Street. I grew up in a small town in Indiana where my dad worked as a mechanic, and I always thought my life was going to be exactly like my mother’s—pop out a few kids, take care of the family, you know … I was a smart girl, getting better grades than the boys, hiding them because I thought being intelligent was unattractive. I went to college at Notre Dame because I loved football, and the football players there were hot,’ she smiled conspiratorially. ‘At college I found myself loving the classes, and I ended up majoring in electrical engineering. When I told my mother that, she was horrified, she thought her only daughter had become a mechanic as well!’ Oh! What a great sense of humour Willow the Wise had! ‘After graduation I got a job at General Motors. I did that for a couple of years, and found that I was pretty damn good at what I did. At GM I saw that all the smart, good-looking men—men who had a future—were all going off to business school. I knew I was no less than any of them so I too decided to apply to business school. I applied to only one school, Harvard, and thought to myself that if it was meant to be, I would get in. As fate would have it, I got in, and well … it changed my life. At HBS I realized that all the smart people were going off to Wall Street. I too decided to be an investment banker. Here I am today, ten years later, at the top, and not just at UBS, but also on the Street. Our consumer retail group is one of the leading groups on Wall Street and I run it. What I am trying to say is that a career in banking transformed my life from a simple country girl with unruly hair and no ambition to a jet-setting New-Yorker with a life that that I had only dreamt of.’ She said with a little bit of a giggle (What a perfect giggle! What perfect teeth!), ‘My sister tells me every day that my hair gets better with my banking career. My life changed. And yours can too … if you work with us.’

  There was silence in the room as she sat down beside he
r Birkin bag, and then thunderous applause broke out. I looked over at Liz, who was sitting a couple of rows in front of me. She had tears pouring down her face and a tissue clutched in a hand that was badly in need of a manicure. This was the fairy-tale banking story that all of us dreamt of, and Willow was the banker we all wanted to be.

  One of the front-row freaks stood up, a worshipful look in her eyes as though she had been touched by the Divine. ‘Ms Fitzgerald, thank you for being here today. We are all so moved by your story. I had a question for you, you are so successful, and have made it to the top of the corporate ladder in a male-dominated world, how do you maintain a work-family balance?’

  Another dirty one.

  ‘Thanks hon! Well … you know, it’s a struggle to the top and it’s tough especially for a girl, but lots of women are doing extremely well professionally, and are happily married, have husbands, families, take really fun vacations, all of the good stuff! So that should be the least of your worries, darling!’ Immediately all eyes went to her perfectly manicured hands. No sign of a diamond encrusted ring, at least on the finger that it was supposed to be on. She gave a big bright, perfect smile, but for some reason the smile didn’t exude the same kind of confidence as the earlier ones had. As I slugged back to my dorm room after the presentation, a little tipsy, having once again consumed one too many glasses of wine, I thought to myself. What was the big deal if Willow wasn’t married? I couldn’t understand why I seemed to care so much. She was beautiful, successful and happy, isn’t that what mattered? Did every woman have to be married to be happy? Was it is the only way? I respected Willow. She broke free of the shackles of her mediocre, Mid-Western life and created a successful career for herself, by herself. Isn’t this what I wanted too? Couldn’t I have this too? Did I really want to spend the rest of my life in some suburban hospital operating on sick people, coming home to make chapattis for my good Indian husband? Did I really want to spend the rest of my life living up to my parent’s expectations as they lived the lives of all their unborn children through me? To me, Willow’s life seemed so much better; she led an independent, adventurous, glamorous life. Isn’t that what inspired me? Then why was the fact that she wasn’t married so disturbing to me? Another thing to blame my parents for. From the day that I had entered the world, it had been drilled into my head that marriage was the only way for an Indian girl. Life would not go on without a husband. I had been programmed a certain way, and it seemed strange to me that a woman could lead a happy life without a husband and children. I could change, I would change. I had to change. I wanted to be an investment-banking success, and if that meant compromising on the overbearing Indian ideals of relationships, marriage and children then that is exactly what I would have to do.